


Razor Valentine

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortfic, written for jjtaylor's challenge Snape/Tonks, sight. And this is exactly why I should not be listening to Thea Gilmore while writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Razor Valentine

The hands are on him again, holding him down and he screams, screams for her, and he can hear their whispers rushing over him like the rustle of leaves in a spring wind... The hands are on him again, holding him down and he screams, screams for her, and he can hear their whispers rushing over him like the rustle of leaves in a spring wind and he hears the words but he can't understand them, can't understand the language they speak, but he understands the pale hands pressing into his shoulders, his forehead, his legs, his arms, keeping him from thrashing, and the woman--her again with her puzzled frown and her curious blue eyes watching him that are so like _her_ eyes--she presses the needle into his arm and he screams again--

**********************

It's dark when he wakes. Moonlight filters through the narrow window at the end of his room, pale silver through the twisted wire and the bars crossed over the thick, unbreakable glass.

He shifts on the cot and it creaks beneath him as his hipbone presses into the mattress. His fingers slide over the clammy skin on his forearm; he can feel the bones beneath the muscle, can feel the needle marks, can feel the edge of the Mark, still bandaged from the last time he tried to claw at it three days ago.

They now keep his fingernails clipped nearly to the quick.

He pushes at the white gauze, wiggling his fingertips beneath the edge, and he stares at the shadows on the floor, long and grey and black against the smooth concrete. His gaze drifts up to the window, where he can see a fragment of moon up at the very top corner. He clambers out of bed, his legs still shaking from the potion--medication, he corrects himself; won't do to give the Muggles any more reason to prove he is mad--from the _medication_ they gave him earlier.

The moon is full, as it had been on that night, and he stands in its light, his cheek pressed against the cool wall next to the window. He stretches a hand out into the moonlight and he can feel it move against his hobbled magic, an almost imperceptible push of power against power. Dust glimmers in the light, dancing across his skin, and he breathes out slowly, relishing the slow tingle that runs through his blood

"Severus."

He turns at the whisper, with a small smile. She's come again, with the moonlight.

Nymphadora stands in front of him, her skin as pale and as silver as the moon itself, and Severus' breath catches. The shadows from the bars and wires cross her face, and her hair is a filthy snarl of unwashed pink, hanging over her scarred shoulder and Severus can't stop himself from brushing his knuckles against that soft, warm cheek.

"I've missed you," Severus says softly, and she smiles as her hand--soft and smooth--curls around his gaunt wrist, as her fingers slide across his palm and twist through his own.

"Didn't I tell you I'd come back?"

Severus circles her, his bare feet cold on the floor, eyes drinking in the sight of her. His fingertips shake as they run across the blue robe, across the stiff, dried stain on Nymphadora's shoulders, as they brush at the twisted curl of matted, crusted pink hair tucked behind her ear, as they trace the sharp angle of her bruised jaw. He stops in front of her again. "They don't believe you exist," he whispers, and Nymphadora presses her forehead to Severus', her hand first cool on Severus' cheek, then smoothing back his hair, as long and snarled and filthy as her own.

"I'm here," she whispers back, and her mouth brushes the corner of Severus', warm and soft, and he shivers. He remembers that touch, remembers the slide of her body against his, remembers the quiet sigh she made as he pressed inside her.

She believed him when she found him. She believed him and she hadn't let him run.

She'd known him. Wanted him. Protected him.

Lov--he caught himself. Cared for him.

And in return he had--but he hadn't--he wouldn't have, no matter what the damned Muggles thought. No matter what he thought.

He shakes and he grabs at Nymphadora's robe, twisting his fingers in the soft wool, and he can feel her move against him, can feel her body press into his as her arms slip around his neck, holding him tight. "I've told them. I've said you come with the full moon and they think I'm mad." His mouth moves across Nymphadora's, lips barely touching, and then her hand is in his hair, pulling him closer. "Tell me I'm not mad."

"You're not mad," she whispers softly into his neck and for one moment he believes her until he remembers that she only comes to him in the moonlight.

Severus breathes out, a warm huff against the soft brush of her hair on his mouth, and he can smell the blood still matting it.

Can still see her lying in their bed and the pestle , Merlin, _his_ pestle next to her temple, and he can still hear the footsteps of the Muggles in the hallway and the empty potions bottle rolling across the floor as he stumbled next to the bed, the bottle with the Malfoy crest and the smell of roses and his magic--he can't Apparate, his body is too heavy and thick to push through the air and as the Muggles burst into the flat, he sees the word written in blood--her blood--on the wall just before the familiar, boyish handwriting vanishes, sinking into the peeling plaster, and it's only here in the moonlight he can remember it now.

_Squib._

He tightens his grip on her and his hands tremble. "I didn't--" he begins and she presses a finger to his lips, stepping away with a small smile.

And he stands alone.

He holds his hands into the moonlight, waiting. Wishing for the twist of magic that she brings.

The shadows are cold as they stretch across his skin.


End file.
